


Fake It

by teaandcharcoal



Series: johndave week 2017 [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Denial, M/M, Past Abuse, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, because lbr neither of them want to deal with shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 13:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11403159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandcharcoal/pseuds/teaandcharcoal
Summary: Somedays the only way you can get by is by clinging to the last threads of normalcy, even if it means ignoring half of your life. Written for johndaveweek 2017 day 2: song day, based on Fake It by Bastille





	Fake It

**Author's Note:**

> So this might be a little less polished than I'd like. I just moved yesterday, and I don't have internet so I've had to quickly upload this in a mcdonalds. 
> 
> As mentioned in the summary, the song is fake it by bastille: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GIwyqsqHsic

_Oh my lover, my lover, my love_   
_We can never go back_   
_We can only do our best to recreate_   
_Don't turn over, turn over the page_   
_We should rip it straight out_   
_Then let's try our very best to fake it_

“-And I don't think that that's a selfish want, I really don't. I'm not saying that I have this capacity because it's hard to develop that capacity on your own when you're being stopped at every turn."

You pause the video as soon as you hear the key turning in the lock. The couple on screen freezes, staring left against a burnt white background. The sound quality on these old videos is so garbled and degraded that you can only parse the dialogue's meanings – much less the layers of meaning the professor expects – in silence. You were hoping to get this done today, but it is what it is.

Dave stomps in and drops his backpack on the table before flopping down on the futon.

“Rough day?” you ask.

“Yeah. It was Sherski’s midterm. I still don’t even fucking get why I have to take math. I’m majoring in photography for a reason.”

“You could have just taken your gen eds earlier like I did,” you point out. You roll your chair back and go to sit down next to him, looping one arm around his slim frame.

“Yeah well fuck you.”

You grin at him. “Maybe later.”

He smiles back. “You know I’ll be taking you up on that, Egbert.”

“Counting on it.”

He nods over towards your computer screen. “What’s that?”

“Really old short film.”

“How old we talkin'?”

“1971.”

He gives you a concerned look.

“It’s required. No idea why, but the professor is super into these old educational videos?"

“Oh.” He looks at the screen for a moment then gets to his feet. “Let’s go out.”

“Dave, it’s fine.”

“Think of it as celebrating me being done with my test.”

You smile. “Yeah, okay.”

Dave gives you one of those wry half-smiles and closes your laptop for you.

You shove your feet into an old pair of sneakers, and the two of you tromp down to your building's garage. Shitbiscuit – Dave decided to call your car that, even though Dad got you one that works perfectly fine, thanks. – is parked in its tiny spot next to the pillar, right where you left it. You absentmindedly run your fingers along its hood, the metal cool and smooth and solid to the touch.

"Wanna drive?" You ask.

"Sure," he replies.

He doesn't ask why, doesn't miss a beat. There's a reason you stay with him. You open the door and slide into the passenger seat. When he gets into the car he puts his hand on your thigh for just a moment, a tiny comfort or reassurance that he could play off as just liking your legs.

"Any idea where we're going?" you ask.

"Not a clue." He turns the keys in the ignition. "My plan was just kind of to find somewhere to loiter until dinner, grab some pizza, then maybe head to a bar."

"Sounds great."

The smile on your face is genuine as he pulls out of the garage. You can feel the gentle rumble of the engine, and as you roll down the window the slightly humid afternoon air blasts against your face.

“You know those stupid pens that have springs on the end and then like pom-poms or some shit attached to them?” Dave asks.

“Yeah? I mean I haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid, but I know what they are.”

“Well, apparently they’re coming back. When I was taking that test the girl next to me had one. It was this dumb little frog with googly eyes on it and I couldn’t fucking concentrate because every time she wrote anything it bounced all over the place and my fucking peripheral vision went _nuts._ If I failed it’s totally her fault.”

“Yep,” you say. “Can’t have anything to do with the fact that you played with your midi pad instead of studying all weekend.”

“But, dude, I made some raw shit. Check this out.” He reaches for his phone.

“Dammit, Dave, not while you’re driving.”

He pouts a little, though he’d never acknowledge that tiny downward curve as a frown,“Fine.”

But he clearly starts looking more intently for somewhere to pull over. You wind up at Wilson Park, just a little over a mile away from the apartment. The two of you walk across a broad open field to get to your normal spot. There’s a small grove of oak and elm trees with a tiny little clearing inside. Not long after you moved here, the two of you dragged a picnic table in there. You don’t think anyone else has touched it in three years. Sparrows and robins chirp in the trees around you.

Dave hops up onto the table and pulls his phone from his pocket. “Okay, birds, I know you’re trying to get laid, but shhhh!”

You sit down on the bench part of the bench as the music starts to play. The birds ignore his command, and the legion of feathery assholes easily overpower the speaker on Dave’s phone. But this close you can still hear it.  Dave’s really improved since his first awkward garage band files. Sometimes you wish you had more to contribute. You know some _basic_ music theory, but there’s always so much going on in Dave’s mixes, things cutting in and out, but all smoothly weaving together. There’s not much your limited knowledge can contribute, other than noting that his music used to feel like a bucket full of legos, but it’s moved on to be more like a complex, curvy blown glass sculpture.

“So, what do you think? Awesome, right?” He asks as the track ends. He tries to hide his desperation and need for validation, but you feel it creeping into his words.

“Yeah. Awesome.” You grin. “Almost awesome enough that if you email Sherski an MP3 she might not fail you.”

He shoves you with his foot, but you refuse to move.

Then his phone buzzes. He glances down and scowls.

“What is it?”

“Rose,” he says, shoving it back in his pocket. “Doing her weekly ‘you guys really should go back to therapy’ routine.”

“Oh.” You pull your knees up to your chest. “You know, sometimes I wonder if that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

He takes a deep breath. “We’ve been over this. Like, sure, it helped with coming to terms with all the shit Bro pulled and it helped with the internalized homophobia stuff, but the rest of this? No one else will ever get it.”

“Maybe if they had a bit more time?”

“I mean, if you want to go back you can," he replies with a shrug.

“No!” you say, too quickly and forcefully.

Dave slides down to be on your level. This time he puts his arm around your bulkier frame. “Yeah,” he says. “If nothing else, a good shrink costs a lot of money, but cuddling's free.”

Your lips quirk up into a smile and you lean your head against his. “I love you, Dave.”

“Love you too.” He lifts one hand to play with your hair for a bit, winding your cowlick around his finger.

“Hey,” you say. “Wanna see if the playground’s open? I feel like spinning on the carousel until I can’t walk straight.”

“John, you can’t do anything straight.”

“God you’re an asshole,” you say. But you’re smiling again.

Instead of responding, he hops off the bench and pulls you to his feet.

The playground is completely dead, which is good because you always worry some mom is going to object to two grown men playing on the swings or the junglegym or whatever and call the cops. You and Dave make a beeline for the carousel and spin until you almost barf.  By the time your stomachs settle it's late enough that the meters downtown are free, so you get in the car. Dave finds a decent spot on Sixth Street and you get out to wander.

Dave has his camera out for the entire time. He takes pictures of the buildings and the sky, of the crows and pigeons when they settle nearby, of the cars that are parked and those that zoom past you. There's a taco truck parked at a small plaza and you stop there for dinner. You park your asses on a bench to eat. With his free hand Dave pulls out his camera again, this time to flip through the pictures he's taken. His finger constantly flies to the delete button.

"Hey," you say, "Can I take a look?"

"Yeah, sure. I mean, most of 'em are nothing spectacular. They're all gonna need some doctoring."

"You know they're fine on their own," you say.

He has a way of holding the camera, of playing with the angles and the focus that makes things you wouldn't look at twice seem beautiful and important. Sometimes you think the two of you should go into movies together, but that would attract too much attention. At least he's willing to anonymously submit pieces to competition and galleries now. His work deserves to be seen by the world.

"Yeah, they're 'fine,' but dude do you have any idea how many pictures of bridges and shit there are in the world? Like, I might bullshit almost all of my artist statements for school, but I do want my shit to actually mean something."

You look up at him. "What do you want it to mean?"

He shrugs. "Depends on the series."

As you keep moving through you begin to notice that the vast majority of the pictures have you somewhere in them. They're not all _of_ you specifically. Sometimes you're out of focus or off to the side, but with Dave you know it has to be intentional. Even if you didn't know he was taking more than half of these.

"Wow, Dave, didn't know you were such a stalker," you say, elbowing him slightly.

"Yep. Building that shrine I have of you in my half of the closet. You know, the one where I keep your chewed gum and locks of your hair."

You can't help but laugh.

"Seriously, though, I was waiting until I'd finished editing some proof-of-concept-type pictures before I asked you, but…" He takes his camera back and adjusts his shades nervously. "I had this idea for a series."

"One that actually means something?"

"Yeah. And I know this is our usual M.O. but you can't laugh or tease me for this, okay. I'm being serious."

The smile fades from your lips. "I promise. But I gotta ask. Is it- is this bad?"  

"No. It's just really cheesy. I, um," he runs his fingers through his hair. "I want to do a bunch of pictures that are mostly black and white, maybe even a bit fuzzy, but then have the color like radiating or bleeding out of you. I'm not sure exactly what effect I'm gonna use yet."

"That sounds badass, dude, not cheesy."

"Well, like, the cheesy bit is more that, uh, that's kind of how you make me feel." You blink at him. He looks at you earnestly, if a bit embarrassed. "Like you know how black and white works as a metaphor for depression and shit, right? But when I'm around you I feel normal; like I'm fine the way I am and you're fine the way you are. We can be together and we can be us the way we want to be us and it's okay."

You almost drop your taco. "Dave, I-"

You can't words, so instead you put the camera down on the bench and pull him into a kiss, trying to pour the passion from your overfull heart into him. He responds tentatively, like he's still not entirely sure where you're coming from. And you want to tell him, you're _going_ to tell him. You just need to get the words together first. The kiss buys you the time you need.

"That's beautiful, Dave."

"I don't know about-"

"Really, it is. And I totally get it. I don't know I'd have thought to put it that way but it fits perfectly. But yeah, you can totally make it. Actually, I _want_ you to make it."

He gives you an honest-to-god smile from ear to ear. "Oh fuck, that's a relief. Thanks, man."

"No, thank _you,_ Dave."

He starts blushing and looks away. "Shit, dude, we're so gay. What're we gonna do?"

It's a rhetorical question, of course. But with the gesture he's making with the pictures, that heartfelt confession… you want to do something nice for him too. And there's only one thing you can think of, the thing he's wanted for almost four years now.

"I think we should go camping this weekend."

"Oh?" he asks. "Weather supposed to be extra good?"

"No, but… I think I'm ready to let go, I'm ready to commit to this. Let's burn that fucking box."

He actually does drop his taco. Then he takes hold of you with both hands and and gives you the most loving, passionate kiss you’ve ever had in public. If there was any doubt in your mind when you said it out loud, it's gone now.

That Saturday you head out. The last thing you do before you leave is pull the shoebox out from beneath the bed and shove it into your backpack. Dave waits for you in the living room wearing shorts and hiking boots. His own backpack is on the couch, stuffed with snacks and other gear. You can see a bit of a chip bag through a hole in the side. He smells of sunscreen, and the tube is shoved into one of the water bottle holsters.

“Ready to go?” He asks.

“Yeah. Let’s do this.”

You go down to the car. He throws his backpack in the back. It bounces off of the tent and lands on the floor next to the sleeping bags. You set yours down gently in back before plopping your ass in the driver's seat. You turn on the radio, and a news story starts up. You hear the words “Crocker Corp” and immediately change the station. Some bubblegum pop song Dave pretends to like starts playing. Yeah, that’ll do.

The sun is shining and the road is mostly empty. You go 15 miles over the speed limit the whole time, passing minivans and sedans left and right. As you get out of town the traffic thins even further. There are campgrounds closer to the apartment, but even this early in the season there'll be other people and less tree cover than you'd like.

So you get off the freeway and head into the woods. The massive pine trees here are almost like home. The roughly-paved two lane highway wraps around tall hills. Where the soil has been eroded away the rock below is a sharp purple. Eventually you reach the sign marking the entrance to Kaniki Park.

The two of you have been out here a few times.  It took Dave a while to come around to being outdoorsy but, hey, if there's one thing you've got it's time. You stop at the office to pay for a spot and then turn off onto a bumpy dirt road. There's a gorgeous site down at the very end of the trail in a small clearing that next to a stream. Dave always says it’s like your spot back in town on steroids. You kind of agree.

This early in the season there’s no one around for miles. Normally going out here is freeing, especially when you just get to be all alone with Dave. Today, though, the air is thick with the weight of what you’re going to do. What you _have_ to do.

You typically like to get the tent set up first. You do that, get some some chairs out, and then maybe go for a hike along the stream. If you do that you turn around well before dark and collect wood on the way back to the campsite. Today you don’t do any of that. You park the car and the two of you head into the trees, picking up anything that looks even vaguely flammable.

Soon you have a decent pile going.

“A’ight, boy scout,” Dave says. “You’re up.” He claps you on the shoulder and then heads back unto the underbrush.

You scowl at his back and start getting the fire built. He’s teased you for it since you were a kid, and he’s probably going to keep teasing you about it forever, but even if he had any ill intent he could never get you to regret the years you spent as a scout. It was one of the few things that you had with _your_ dad and only your dad. Jane’s was always too protective to let her run around in the woods.

By the time Dave comes back with another armful of sticks you’ve already got a decent blaze going. He unceremoniously dumps his offerings onto your carefully sorted piles.

“Thanks.” You say.

He shrugs as he kneels down next to you. “You always say I do it wrong anyway.”

“It’s ‘cause you do!”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry I grew up in the city.”

“You should be,” you tease.

He smiles just a little bit, then takes a deep breath.

“You okay, dude?”

“Mentally preparing myself. It’s about time, isn’t it?”

“Not yet. I mean, the log’s barely caught. If we dump the cards on it now it’ll go out.”

“Fine.”

You lean against him gently, just to remind him that you’re there. But he gets back up and goes to the car.

“Dave?”

“I mean,” he says, “It _is_ still gonna get dark.”

“Right.”

He opens the trunk and pulls out the tent. He must have started thinking again. You just focus on the fire, keeping it just fed enough to keep spreading. It stabilizes a bit before Dave finishes getting your tent all the way set up, but you don’t tell him right away. You’re honestly not sure how either of you are going to react to this. It might be good to have some nice soft sleeping bags to plop down on after this is over.

You take the box from your backpack and set it on a nearby stump.

“Ready?” You ask.

“I’ve been ready for four fuckin’ years,” he replies.

He pulls the lid from the box, and you’re forced to actually look at the thick stack of cards. One of Dave’s swords is on top. He picks it up and tears it in half. Red sparks crackle out of it as the item inside is destroyed. Then he throws the two lifeless pieces of posterboard into the fire.

“Holy shit,” he whispers. “John, you have to try this. Holy shit.”

He holds a second card out to you. It’s your very first hammer. Your fingers tremble as you take it.

“Do it,” he says.

You take a deep breath and tear the captchalogue card in half. Blue sparks fly out this time. The texture stays the same, still glossy and slick, but it feels smaller and less sturdy as the technology or magic or whatever allowed the damn thing to work drains from it.

At that same moment you feel something drain from you. It’s over. It’s done. You’re not going back. No one can make you go through any of this shit ever again. You let the paper – and that’s all it is now. Just paper. – fall into the flames. It first browns, then blackens along the edges. There are little bubbles where the ink gets distorted from the heat. A little chunk of ash flies up into the air and as it falls you catch it in your hand. It’s pure white, looks like it could have come from anything. You crumple it in your fist.

You and Dave look at each other for a moment and then wordlessly start pulling card after card out of the pile. You tear the first few – you can tell from the color of the sparks that you have some his and he has some of yours but neither of you care.

“We shouldn’t go too fast,” You say as more ash flies up into the air. “We might smother the fire otherwise.”

“Say that without giggling and then talk to me Egbert.” He’s grinning from ear to ear and you notice you are too.

“Okay, fair, but let me try something.” You grab one card, not even looking to see what’s on it, and drop it into the fire. Bright red sparks shoot up into the air.

“Nice!” Dave says.

“Sorry I wrecked your shit.” You grab a handful. “Want me to do it again?”

“Fuck yes! Go! Go! Go!”

You drop them in one by one. Jetpack, painting, a pair of fake arms. As  they begin to burn a fountain of sparks erupts out of the fire pit. They’re blue and red mostly, but you catch sight of a couple green. You must have gotten some of Jade’s somewhere down the line, oops. Well, she hasn't missed them yet. And she's still got the technology to make new ones. Ash and sparks rain down around you like confetti.

You and Dave throw in card after card until the box is empty. Then, just for fun, you burn the box too. And just like that, it's over. Other than the extra ash around and in the pit, a perfectly ordinary campfire burns in front of you. You sink down onto the stump.

They're gone. The last remnants of the game, of your old world has literally gone up in smoke. You feel lighter, free. You could fly if it wouldn't go against the spirit of the destroying game artifacts thing. Dave stares into the fire, almost manic smile fading from his face.

He takes a deep breath, walks around the pit, and throws his arms around you. "It's done," he murmurs.

"Yeah," you breathe back.

"Hey," he says, pulling away. "Wanna pretend to be a couple of untraumatized twenty-somethings and wander through the woods?"

You hop to your feet, douse the fire with a bucket of water and smile back at him. "Let's go."


End file.
